False White
by SeekerAstria
Summary: This is a rather melancholy take on a point in FMA canon. In the wake of failure, even the best hopes for the future must be faced with uncertainty. Several characters muse on what was, what is, and what could be.


_False White_

"You're like automail!"  
The spanner Winry was holding smacked the bedside-table at this declaration. Idly, Ed sat up slightly from his bed, where he had lain since finishing his exhausting exercises that morning. He now felt as though his repeated attempts to move the metal arm and leg had left him aching in muscles nowhere near the automail. Winry's little 'maintenance check' hadn't helped. It would be a few hours yet until Pinako allowed Ed to get into the wheelchair – a hard enough job as it was – and leave the small patient's room that had become his 'temporary' bedroom. Not having the faintest idea what Winry was talking about he had no choice but to ask, "What?"  
"You. You're like automail…." The blonde girl repeated, grinning, and as Ed opened his mouth to protest, she continued hastily, "I've been thinking about it. Automail is strong and tough. It can go on for a really long time without breaking – _if _it's taken care of" she shot her friend a dark look, already expecting that he would be difficult when it came to maintaining his new prostheses, "and _you_ are tough too. You've done all this…..stuff, an' are thinking of some ….stuff grandma says is pretty dangerous and bad. And you're still doing it!" Her tone was an odd mixture of admiration and accusation; she knew of Ed's plan and, apparently, wasn't entirely impressed.

Ed sighed, and let his head flop back onto the pillow, wincing inwardly at a jolt of pain from his shoulder. He was _fairly_ sure that Auntie Pinako hadn't said his idea of becoming a State Alchemist was 'bad'. She'd only frowned about it and gone silent, the way grown-ups did when they didn't think much of what a child was planning, but wanted them to find out the mistake for themselves. The fact that she hadn't said anything against it didn't mean she agreed. Ed partly _wanted_ her to disagree, to confirm the dangers he felt were there, ones he could only imagine. And yet he had listened to, and believed the words of a man in a uniform, the man who carried a silver watch of dog of the military. 'Dogs' was what his teacher had called them. Izumi Curtis, who seemed so strong and brave, and had done the kinds of alchemy Ed and Al could only dream of, or had once dreamed of. Those men (and women too, he supposed) were soldiers, who maybe went to war and came back all bloody and bandaged, like the ones who'd passed through Resembool at the end of the war. But even as Ed's mind wandered, Winry would not be shaken from her weird comparison.

"If you're tough like automail, and keep on going, I _bet_ you're not going to fail! You'll get used to this arm and leg….and bring Al's body back!" Winry enthused, smiling broadly, half-hoping that her delight was catching.  
"That's a daft thing to say Winry." Ed muttered wearily, not really listening;  
"How can a person be hard like steel? People aren't made of metal." At this literal interpretation, Winry's eyes turned pointedly to his automail arm which was, Ed would admit, as close to a replica of his lost human one as a bunch of metal and wires could be;  
"But-"  
"And automail's different from flesh, right?" He insisted, eyes brightening slightly at the challenge, "You can't say these are _mine_, any more then Al's armour is _his_." He swallowed painfully at the thought of his brother's fate, but some sudden urge caused him to plough ahead "His soul's there, and the armour just keeps him going. Like automail keeps people moving. That's all. They're just…._tools_, Winry. Like your spanner, huh?" He waved his good hand towards the object in Winry's own,  
"They don't _mean_ anything. They don't _prove_ anything themselves." He stated bluntly, not wanting to acknowledge her expression which was fading into dismay, but inwardly he thought; _That's what alchemy's for – showing things as they are_. _Or, that's what it _should _do_.

Ed had hoped this would put Winry off her idea. It wasn't her place to hold such strength in him, especially not when he didn't even deserve it. After all, Winry wasn't the one who'd messed up so badly. She wasn't the one who almost killed Al. She was going to be an automail mechanic, Ed decided, and do what she loved best. Not get involved in _his_ mistakes which were _his_ to solve! It would be the best thing for her, Ed was sure. She couldn't go around chasing after false, silly little hopes and notions like people being strong enough to do just _anything_. The way he saw it, she'd only end up disappointed and hurt, like he and Al had been. All he had to do was just enough to know that the people he loved couldn't get hurt. And that included Winry. Ed couldn't bear to think of his friend sharing the same future as he and Al, because however bright – or not – it might turn out to be, he could not believe it would stay that way for long. The 'accident' had taught them that single, harsh lesson.

"You're…you're so _stupid_!" Winry exclaimed, as the spanner was suddenly hurled against the far wall and clattered to the floor. Ed could only stare, baffled as to why his explanation had upset her."Here you are, you can go for a, a _week_ without saying anything, and the first time I try to say something to cheer you up, you're mean about it! You don't care that I might care about you, or want you to get better! I don't believe you, Edward Elric!"  
Winry stamped her foot in her anger, wearing the sort of look that Pinako wore when she got really angry at someone. Ed was expecting Winry to storm out, and was a little put out that she didn't. Girls (well, Winry) storming out was easy, because they'd calm down soon enough and everything would be right again. But Winry wasn't backing down, and was actually expecting him to _say_ something, when he didn't know what he'd done wrong.  
"I _haven't_ gone a week without saying anything." He grumbled, looking away from her awkwardly, "Besides. I _don't_ know what I'm going to do. We thought we did, but we _don't_ alright?" He scowled to hide his discomfort with annoyance, and was glad she couldn't see his face as he confessed "Everything went wrong."  
Facing Ed's back, Winry wrung her hands, feeling a little ashamed at her outburst. Shrugging helplessly, she whispered, "I'm sorry, Ed…I, I only wanted to help. 'Cos I think you really are being brave."  
The blond-haired boy snorted dismissively, "Doesn't mean anything, being brave if you do stupid stuff. Like tools and things, you can have a plan and it can still go wrong."  
"But….it can go right, too?" Winry suggested wistfully.  
Ed merely sighed and, with his metal arm a dead weight on his side, closed his eyes. It was a signal that conversation was over. Resigned, and with tears in her eyes, Winry began to walk out. Turning back at the door, she noticed a sharp movement and heard the metallic _chink_ of a metal hand clenching into a fist.

-----------------

"What am I going to do with you?" Pinako wondered softly as she stood in the kitchen doorway, looking in to where Ed sat, nose seemingly buried in a book. The Rockbell household had few books when compared to the collection owned by Hohenheim Elric. She had asked Al if he wanted to bring any books over from their home, but he had quietly said that they would "take up too much space". Acknowledging that Ed had not performed or even spoken of alchemy since the accident, Pinako knew better then to ask the boy, and only hoped that his apparent dedication to her relatively meagre collection was at least an indication of his interest. It would be wrong of Pinako to claim that, in his current state, Edward Elric lacked motivation. Had anyone else said it of the child, she would have scoffed that they were talking of some other boy. At the very least, he still managed to argue with Winry and, when shouting at his automail, show off a very wide vocabulary for a ten year-old.

Yet she could not help but feel uneasy as she watched him from day to day. The boy whose once boundless appetite for childish adventure and, curious for one so young, academic knowledge had vanished in the space of a night, buried beneath the surface of something far more intense. It was as though Ed was directing his energies inward, upon some internal objective, and all lively enthusiasm replaced by bouts of sometimes violent anger. Whatever he was achieving through his long silences and rapt attention to certain tasks, Pinako only hoped he would emerge from the state better for it, and not forever withdrawn from those around him. Despite this, he showed remarkable signs of progress. The exercises with his automail were performed with an obstinate diligence and almost unhealthy dedication. Indeed, Pinako feared Ed would do himself more harm then good in his desire to regain full mobility in a year. As far as she had been able to gather from a red-faced and sobbing Winry, automail had that morning been the subject of an argument – quite _why_ she hadn't been able work out; something about 'being strong'. The minor movements Ed had managed in both limbs had come as a surprise to Pinako, let alone to her young apprentice. Ed's automail was the first Winry had had a part in fitting. It seemed Winry had not yet got through to Ed the fact that the erratic motions of the leg and arm were actually signs of improvement. Typically, Ed would take these instances as yet another level of control denied to him, another small chance dashed in a moment of instability when he'd fall onto his flesh leg, or have his metal hand accidentally come down with crushing force onto a more fragile object.

The automail arm could be raised, lowered and bent to within some degree of normal motion, yet any finer motor-skills had so far eluded Edward. He was of the opinion that his arm was of little use at the moment, for at most it only jerked spasmodically at odd intervals. So far he seemed unable to get it to do what he _told_ it to do. An attempt to stretch 'his' fingers resulted in only the thumb twitching, never mind any desire he had to pick anything up. Only that day, Ed had found he could, with some difficulty, rest small items in the steel hand, but had been left somewhat put-out after his experiments with cups had resulted in shattered china. Over Ed's angered tirade at the "stupid hunk of metal", Pinako had calmly explained that he would, one day, be able to carry as many cups as he cared for – if only he would continue with the planned exercises, rather than carrying on breaking her crockery. Winry's enthusiastic suggestion that he would then be able to fix any damage with alchemy had resulted in Ed, stuck in his wheelchair beside the kitchen table, using the excuse of his books to stubbornly ignore her for the rest of the afternoon.

The pain and frustration caused by automail rehabilitation had driven older men to despair and depression, which was part of the reason why Pinako had always impressed upon her clients the possible psychological effects. It was also the reason why, up until three months ago, she had stood fast by her policy of never operating upon anyone – no matter the circumstances – under the age of sixteen. Aside from the most obvious risks, she might not have considered that a child, physically and emotionally immature, would have been able to endure the process. Edward's abject silence throughout the operation to fit the metal limbs had been admirable, if rather uncanny to observe. It made one wonder just where he kept his pain, shelved away somewhere inside himself. The automail mechanic of thirty years didn't need to be a physician to realise that this was a dangerous tactic in any person. In a child, it was even worse. The fact that Ed even now tended to fall into a melancholic stupor had been worrying Pinako for some time. The boy needed something to hold onto, she had decided, a goal he could reach for, no matter what the distance. Even though it was just that kind of determination that had gotten the Elric brothers into this situation in the first place, it might just be enough to get them out.

---------------

It seemed as though Ed had found his chance on the same night he had lost his limbs, lost a leg to stand on along with a hope of seeing his mother's smile. Even within a hollow body, consigned to a world of few perceptions, this was one thing Alphonse Elric felt to be true. 

The armoured boy stood upon the porch of the Rockbell home, gazing out across the fields. In years to come he would wonder about his vision, about how red pin-pricks of light became his eyes, and how he saw _incessantly_ unhindered by fatigue or even shadow. Even in darkness Al had soon found that his 'eyes' could see some objects, if only faintly. In the first few days Al had been disturbed – as much as he could be – by the absence of physical sensation. He had sometimes taken to walking out late at night for the preoccupation, vainly attempting to tire out his strong form. In truth, he'd only ever gotten a few yards down the path before turning back. There was more than enough to keep him home at night; the thought of his brother's pain, and the mutually unspoken fear at what was to become of them.

It was almost evening now, the sun was setting and in the distance Al could make out a woman and girl leading a cow along the road. In a few metres, he could tell, they would have to get around a cart. The space between them could have been a thousand miles, for all that Al felt about the scene. He knew that the cart would be old and splintered, like the one he and Ed had rode on once, and he had gotten a horribly large splinter in his hand. Al thought could remember the sensation. He had been told by Winry that the local shop had lovely, soft materials for dresses, and Al had only asked why she would want one, for he could not tell what it felt like, and definitely didn't need a dress. Al had once read in a book that armour, though worn to protect warriors in battle, was also used to intimidate and scare the enemy, with scary designs and….spikes, he supposed, thinking of the ones on his shoulders. They could hardly be convenient for the wearer, and they certainly weren't for him, leaving each doorframe and cabinet in the Rockbell house scratched in a lasting reminder of a child in an over-grown body.

But Al tried not to imagine that someone had once worn his armour, or that it was of a type that had been used in some ancient war. It was probably just a replica one his father had picked up somewhere. Armour was meant to protect people from injury, and now it was keeping him from the world, and the world from him. Winry and Pinako were the only ones who knew what had really happened to the two brothers. The rest of the village seemed to think that Ed had lost his limbs in an accident, which was roughly the case. The current rumour going around about Al, Winry claimed, was that he had been horribly disfigured, and couldn't stand to be seen by others. Or, depending on who you asked, be out in daylight. It was _that_ tale which had Pinako insisting that Al be the one to do the grocery shopping, or 'keep Winry company' when she walked Den. Pinako seemed determined to let the rest of Resembool know that the younger Elric was very much alive. Even if, at the moment, Al wasn't sure what that actually _meant_.

He had heard the proposition, almost challenge, of the man named Mustang, and had heard an old defiance in Ed's voice. It was a tone Al feared he would not hear again after he had run in horrified desperation from the blood-stained room of their house. The chance for research, for the freedom to find a way to restore their bodies was, at first, more then Al had been able to take in. It had seemed to be a bleak hope to the boy who had dreamt of a bright future with his mother returned to him. Too easily, too swiftly, their lives had been changed and their minds and bodies with them. Unable to grasp the concept – caught between the already-fading vision of his human self and the abstract dream of his current state – Alphonse had focussed instead upon Edward. His older brother. If this hope was real, Al would give all he could to return his brother's sacrificed limbs to him. Even where he felt as though his soul faltered between two worlds, this was one concrete thought Al was sure of.

----------------

Later that night, Ed was awake in bed. Winry's cheery suggestion that he use alchemy to repair the cups had not been helpful, had made him feel worse. And yet here he was, sitting up, running a finger through the condensation on the window-pane. He had drawn one circle with a square inside of it, and another with a pair of intersecting triangles. From the outside it would look as though the boy was merely doodling aimlessly. But for the first time in months, Edward Elric thought tentatively of the shapes and ideas, the _alchemy_ that had formed so much of his life; a doll, a metal toy, flowers upon a grave. He and Alphonse had been mistaken in alchemy once already, and Ed could not trust that the same wouldn't happen again, even when he knew what he was hoping for was pure perfection in reuniting Al's body, mind and soul as they once were. Now, he realised something, small but neat – like every one of his old, childish experiments; _The array got it wrong_._ It spoke about 'imperfect white'. Not pure. How can anything that imperfect or false be accurate, or true?_ _How can I make sure I don't make the same mistake again?_

The End


End file.
